


Time We Were Together

by Altenprano



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Sybil Lives Week, genre: romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2014-10-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 10:58:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2505347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altenprano/pseuds/Altenprano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sybil and Tom discuss their marriage and the road ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time We Were Together

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Disclaimer: I don't own _Downton Abbey_

“Good afternoon Sybil,” Tom says, ducking into the shade and taking off his cap, holding it at his side.

“Good afternoon, Tom.” A small grin spreads across her lips as a breeze flirts with a stray curl, tugging it across her eyes, which are fixed on him. “Isn’t today lovely?”  

“I suppose so.” He resists the sudden impulse to brush the curl from her face, curling the fingers of his free hand into a loose fist. Instead, he focuses on the soft lines of her face-- the face he fell in love with eight years ago-- and commits the details to memory again. He never wants to forget her, never wants to forget his darling, darling Sybil. “Lady Grantham thinks it might rain later.”    

“You don’t have to call her Lady Grantham, Tom,” she says, a light, almost musical laugh following her words. She glances skywards, and Tom finds himself in awe of her, her face bathed in the warm glow that pierces the grey clouds overhead. It seems that Lady Grantham is right, that it will rain later, but it isn't raining now, and that is all that matters.  

Sybil closes her eyes, and her lips curl into a pleased smile as she angles her head to let the light wash over her slender neck. The same light washes over her handsome collarbones before spilling over the front of her dress.

Tom envies the light. If only he could kiss every inch of her the light touches, but he maintains his composure and his distance. Instead, he imagines the feeling of his lips meeting hers, creating an epicenter of pure bliss at the point of contact. He longs to kiss her where they stand, in the shade of the half-naked tree, beneath the crimson, orange and brown-flecked yellow leaves of late October. He wants to take her in his arms and run his hands through her dark hair and along the graceful curve of her spine. Something keeps him from reaching out and cupping her cheek with his hand, but he lets it win without questioning what it is. Soon, he will be able to hold his wife and caress her and do much more than that. For now, he is content to talk.

“What do I call her then?” he asks, meeting her gaze, his brows drawn together and the corners of his mouth turned downwards in a slight frown.

“Mama or Cora,” Sybil suggests. Her voice carries the same gentle firmness that Tom remembers from the corridors of the Downton Village Hospital during the war, when she protested her mother’s summons to dinner every time he came to fetch her. That tone of voice was Sybil’s and no one else’s.  

“And what of His Lordship?”  

“Papa will have to endure having his former chauffeur as a son-in-law,” she answers. Her blue eyes glint with a hint of mischief, though perhaps it is just a trace of sunlight as a cloud moves to cover it that he sees in her eyes. “And I don’t think he minds, not with our Sybbie as a grandchild.”  

At the mention of their daughter, Tom’s chest swells with pride. “She’s a darling, that’s for sure,” he says. “She’ll have all the young lads after her when she’s older, I’d imagine, if she’s anything like her mother.”

A blush creeps into Sybil’s cheeks. “You might have to ask Papa if you can borrow one of his hunting rifles to chase them off.”.

“He might join me.” A smile ghosts across his lips when he adds: “He’s fond of her, there’s no mistaking that.”

“She’s my baby, of course he’s fond of her.” Sybil rests her hand on her stomach, as if recalling when she was pregnant with her daughter. “Even if you did leave the two of us in Dublin.”

“I didn’t leave you. We discussed--”

She cuts him off. “I’m teasing, love.”

Tom hangs his head and runs a hand through his hair before returning his attention to Sybil. “I know, but to think I put you in danger like that...I...Even with you safe, I can’t help but feel guilty.”

“Don’t,” she says, shaking her head. “It won’t help you to dwell on things like that, Tom Branson, not when nothing bad came of it. I am safe, your daughter is safe, and Papa managed to clear your name. Be thankful for that and look forward to the future.”

“I am, and you know that.”

“Tom, we should be getting back. It looks as if it’s going to pour any minute.” Mary places a hand on her brother-in-law’s shoulder, and Sybil is gone.

A modest headstone stands in her place, and Tom lays a bare hand upon the stone, closing his eyes as he says a silent farewell to his wife. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mary take purposeful strides to Matthew’s monument and pause, much in the same way that he is, before her husband’s grave . Whens she returns, her eyes are red from crying, but she holds herself with such poise that Tom can tell she is already pulling herself back together.

Mary leads the way out of the churchyard, with Tom trailing behind. He looks over his shoulder before stepping onto the street, and sees Sybil watching him from beside her grave.

 _Goodbye, my darling_ , he thinks as he places his cap atop his head. _I’ll be back next week, and maybe I’ll bring Sybbie to see her mummy._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it. As usual, reviews and other comments are welcome.


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